


not so vile a sin

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Agincourt, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), But in a sexy way, Drinking, F/F, Flirting, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26630623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: The night before the battle of Agincourt, Aziraphale enlists Crowley's help to make sure the English aren't obliterated by the French army.What does that look like?Getting the soldiers drunk, of course. It's remarkably difficult to fight with a hangover.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 207
Collections: ineffable wives or female presenting





	not so vile a sin

**Author's Note:**

> This was my submission for the Ineffable Wives Zine "Someone Will Remember Us"! It was such a pleasure to be involved and I'm delighted to share the final product with you.
> 
> Shout out to poetic_nonsense who helped me with Agincourt history and who beta'ed this and told me I absolutely had to give it a happy ending. Thanks, my dear.
> 
> Title from Henry V

_October 24, 1415 outside of Agincourt, France_

Aziraphale paced at the edge of the camp, steadily growing more nervous as she overheard the lords discussing tomorrow’s battle.

“We need to keep the men’s spirits up,” one of them said. “When they fall, they should fall loving their country.”

Aziraphale bit her lip. This was terrible. Gabriel had sent her here to help the English defeat the French and she’d failed over and over again. It couldn’t happen again. If it did, Gabriel would certainly have her head. Or at the very least assign her somewhere much more foul than England, which Aziraphale had begun to grow rather fond of.

There was nothing for it. Putting her shoulders back, she took herself off in the direction of the French camp. Aziraphale’s abilities to miracle up victories might be poor, but she was certainly very good at diplomacy.

Or she would have been if she hadn’t stepped into the French camp and immediately run into Crowley, who was in the middle of heckling some poor squire.

She noticed Aziraphale and immediately shooed off the poor lad, pasting a wicked grin across her face.

“Ought to have known you were here,” Crowley said wryly. Aziraphale hadn’t seen her for nearly a century and she’d taken to wearing her hair long again. It was braided and pinned flat to her head, red wisps escaping at her temples.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Aziraphale asked warily. She’d come to appreciate Crowley. Sometimes. But more often than not, she was quite the pest.

Crowley waved her hand as if to indicate the world at large. “This. Hell said it was going to be a big one. Didn’t say which way or how, but that usually means a bit of Heavenly interference.”

“So you’re with the French then?”Aziraphale asked.

“What? You’re with the English?” Crowley goggled at her. “Shit luck, that.”

“Excuse me!”

“What are there? Five of you left? You’re going to get _trampled_ tomorrow,” Crowley said, that wicked grin returning. It was dark and somehow heated and made something in Aziraphale’s gut jump around unhelpfully.

“That is why I am here, if you must know.”

“Going to cause some mischief with the French, eh? Sow discord? Trying to kick me out of a job, angel?”

Aziraphale resisted the urge to swat at Crowley. She was being terribly ornery. “I am _here_ to try to be reasonable. If I could just speak with that Boucicaut fellow, I’m sure he could be persuaded to focus more on taking prisoners than actually...you know…”

“Slaughtering the poor blokes?”

Aziraphale grimaced. “In short, yes.”

“Well, even if that weren’t the worst plan I’d ever heard—”

“Excuse me!”

“He wouldn’t listen to you anyway. The French are awfully misogynistic. Bit rude actually.”

“The French? If they’re so misogynistic then how are you here?”

Crowley bared her teeth, for all the world like something that could really bite. “Fight in enough melees, angel, and anyone will respect you.”

Aziraphale flushed, picturing Crowley in armor, bringing down the pommel of her sword, swinging it behind her, taking down enemies with the sort of aplomb Aziraphale remembered from their days in other wars. Less damp ones.

“Right,” Aziraphale said, glancing at her feet. “Well, perhaps you could…”

“I could what?”

“Help me?” Aziraphale asked, gazing up at Crowley through her lashes plaintively.

Crowley let out a long groan and then gestured aggressively with her arm in the direction of the camp. “Fine. Come along. We’ll talk in my tent.”

Feeling very pleased with herself, Aziraphale trotted after Crowley as she dipped into her own tent and snapped at the young men assembling her things and laying out supper on a small table.

They scuttled away, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone.

Crowley began to undo the ties of her gambeson and Aziraphale sucked in a breath. Crowley’s eyes flicked to hers momentarily but she didn’t stop undressing.

“Been riding most of the day. It’s sweatier than the seventh circle out there,” she explained as she undid her belt and tossed it aside. It crashed into the ground with a small clatter, and her gambeson followed. Underneath she was wearing a long-sleeved, black linen shirt and she hadn’t been lying. Aziraphale could see the sheen of sweat on her exposed collarbone where the shirt gaped open at the top. The shirt hung to the tops of her thighs and made her look taller, leaner.

Aziraphale’s stomach did that strange squirming thing again.

"So, you want me to do a little wiling," Crowley said, dropping down on the bench by the table and pouring herself some wine. She summoned a second cup and filled that too before handing it to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale hesitated.

"Drink up, angel. Haven't you heard? There's a battle tomorrow."

Aziraphale perked up. Now that was an idea. She dropped down onto the bench next to Crowley, mind whirling with possibility.

"Perhaps that's it!"

Crowley wrinkled her nose above the rim of her cup in confusion. "What?"

"The French soldiers. They're probably celebrating. They’re set to win tomorrow."

"Yeah, and?"

"Perhaps we could make sure…" Aziraphale lifted her eyebrows meaningfully. "That they had a _very_ good time tonight."

Crowley bit her lip. "Keep the wine flowing is what you mean."

"Keep it flowing and make sure they drink it."

Crowley cocked her head back and forth as if considering it. "Alright. Sounds like a lark. Bit of mayhem before a battle never hurt."

Aziraphale huffed. "It’s _supposed_ to hurt, Crowley. That's the point. No one fights well when they’re hung over."

Crowley made a dismissive noise and then nudged the tray of cheese and bread in Aziraphale’s direction. "C’mon, angel. You've come all this way. Have a nibble."

Aziraphale drank deep of her cup and said, "Well. Don’t mind if I do."

* * *

" _Listen,"_ Crowley hissed, a long slur that gathered the attention of everyone around their little patch of firelight. "We are gonna show th’ English what for!"

The group cheered and downed their cups. It had been a variation on the same throughout the evening: Crowley dragging Aziraphale through the camp, chatting up a group and then saying something to the effect of jolly good, defeat the English and they would all roar and drink.

The mistake had been drinking with them.

Aziraphale was decidedly fuzzy around the edges. Very fuzzy. She was starting to think that Crowley looked very nice in her silver and black surcoat with its fetching red ties. That her red hair looked terribly silky as it fell down her back in one long braid.

Crowley looked over at her, face cast in firelight, and grinned like they were in on some sort of joke together. Which they sort of were.

"Tell us, Crowley," one of the men at arms said, words slightly crowded together. "Is this lady as fierce on the field as you?"

Crowley’s smile turned sharp. "I dunno. She’s always wielded a sword better than me."

The man clapped a hand on his chest in genuine surprise. "Better than you. Never seen the like. Prove it."

Aziraphale dimly sensed that this might be a bad idea and waved her hands in front of her. "Oh, no, oh, no. I'm much too drunk."

The other two men crowed, "That’s the fun of it!"

"C’mon, angel. Wooden swords?" Crowley asked with a cock of her eyebrow. "Show ‘em how it's done."

Aziraphale rose to slightly unsteady feet. Apparently, the good decision-making portion of her brain had gone offline around the third cup of wine.

After she’d realized she’d be in armor more often than not about a century ago, Aziraphale had taken to wearing her hair short, cut to just above her ears, where it curled a bit at the ends. It made life much easier. As Crowley pinned back her own braid, Aziraphale wondered at her ability to keep it so long given the circumstances.

Crowley tossed her a training sword seemingly from nowhere and winked.

"Well, lads. What’s say you wager your drinks?"

The oldest man lifted his cup and said, "My bet’s on Crowley!"

The other two agreed. Well, if it meant they'd get drunk…

Aziraphale lowered her center of gravity and raised her sword. She hadn't fought _against_ Crowley since Alexander but she remembered the demon's style, whip quick and flexible. She wondered if that would hold up under intoxication.

Crowley lunged suddenly and Aziraphale managed a block, knocking Crowley's sword away easily and pressing her newfound advantage as Crowley teetered on her feet. She stepped close, wedging her leg between Crowley’s and twisted her sword arm until Crowley was forced to drop her sword.

"Point to me," Aziraphale said, far too breathless for the amount of effort she’d just expended. Crowley's mouth ticked up.

"Point to you."

The men grumbled and drank.

Aziraphale fell back into a defensive stance as Crowley gathered her sword. "Again?"

It went on like that, Crowley dodging and Aziraphale parrying. Their bodies pressed together and separated, chests heaving, sweat gathering on their brows. Aziraphale felt drunk in every possible way.

It was just her and Crowley, the wooden connection of their swords, the crackle of a fire, the hum of insects in the fields.

And then Crowley knocked her sword from her hand and had her by the throat. Her cool fingers wrapped around her neck and the tip of her sword slid over Aziraphale’s pulse. Aziraphale swallowed and Crowley's eyes dropped to her mouth. There was a bead of sweat on her temple. It gathered and fell.

Aziraphale licked her lips.

"Point to me," Crowley said, sounding choked as she retreated abruptly.

The sound of applause echoed through the camp and they turned to see quite an amassed audience.

"To Crowley! Best swordsman in France!" one of the men said, hopping up on a rock and raising his glass. The camp roared as Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look.

"Perhaps they could be a bit more drunk?" Aziraphale offered as the eyes of the crowd turned inward and more wine was poured, casks miraculously refilled at every turn.

Crowley pushed the sweat damp strands of hair from her face and nodded. "That should do it."

Aziraphale should have said no to the fourth cup of wine. The fifth. The sixth.

She should have found her own place of rest and not gone with Crowley to her tent. She didn’t remember much after that.

* * *

Aziraphale woke up, eyes gritty. She hadn’t had a hangover in a very long time. She must have forgotten to miracle the alcohol from her body.

She felt unaccountably warm. Almost sticky with sweat. She tried to roll out from under whatever blanket was draped atop her and realized it wasn’t a blanket, rather a Crowley, when it groaned aloud and flopped to the side, unabashedly nude from the waist down, shirt barely keeping her modest.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, didn't have a stitch on her.

Crowley moaned and nuzzled closer, rubbing her nose on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Oh dear.

"Morning, angel," Crowley mumbled, one rather possessive hand flopping over Aziraphale’s belly and coming to rest on her hip.

Aziraphale scrambled away and immediately regretted it when her head began to pound.

Crowley grunted and sat up, hand going to her face. “Fuck, should have sobered up.”

Aziraphale made an indignant noise and tried to cover up her body. Not that it helped in the least.

"Come back to bed, angel. Sleep it off."

"But the battle…" Aziraphale protested weakly as Crowley tugged on her arm.

"Who cares about battles? I could kiss you again."

Crowley drew her close and brought their mouths together. The contact sang through Aziraphale’s body.

Horrified, she pulled away. "Again? Kiss me _again_?"

"Don't you remember…." Crowley drifted off and then she groaned and rolled her eyes. "Did you black out?"

"No," Aziraphale lied.

"Well then do you remember ripping off all your clothes and tackling me to the ground."

"I certainly did not do that," Aziraphale said though she had a faint image of Crowley’s horrified face as Aziraphale struggled with the ties to her trousers in an effort to get them off.

"Or me having to kindly turn you down on account of you being completely sloshed?"

"No?" Aziraphale ventured hesitantly.

"I did let you kiss me though," Crowley said, carefully drawing Aziraphale back into bed. "You tasted so sweet."

"Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, heart racing as Crowley trailed her fingers down her sternum. Sod the battle. “Kiss me again.”

Crowley smirked and was happy to oblige.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical note: a contributing factor to the French loss at Agincourt was indeed the fact that they all partied too hard the night before and were hung over (there were other factors) but imagine wearing heavy armor in the hot sun in muddy damp fields while wanting to ralph the wine you had the night before? You'd fight pretty poorly too.


End file.
